Honor's Loss
by kstorm
Summary: Set after A Girl's Best Friend, one of the JAG crew goes missing...and turns up years later
1. Chapter 1

Honor's Loss

Author:  kstorm

Disclaimer:  I don't own JAG or the characters from the show.  My car is 7 years old and my trailer 32—I don't think either of them is worth much, so please don't sue me for letting my imagination run away with me.

A/N:  I am still working on Secrets and Sacrifices, but for some reason this idea popped into my head and will just not give me any peace.  To top it off, the first story I started is also attempting to gain my attention, so I seem to be writing three stories simultaneously (the first one isn't posted anywhere yet, but if it doesn't drop back into relative obscurity in the next few days, I'll be adding it to my list).  I will attempt to not make any posting promises I cannot keep, and will try to update on as regular a basis as I can, but my job as a manager in retail sometimes sucks all the energy out of me.  As always, feedback is much appreciated—it helps to restore that lost energy.  I'm the only beta reader on this, so any and all mistakes are mine.

Anything through _A Girl's Best Friend_ is fair game…anything after is another universe.

Honor's Loss 1/?

January 1, 2009

Day 1831 

Secure facility, just outside Washington, DC

1100 Zulu

            It is a small, semi-divide space featuring an eating area, a sleeping area and a tiny—and only vaguely private—bathroom.  Soft light shines from fixtures set in the high ceiling, offering the only illumination available.  The cold and solid gray walls completely enclose three sides of the room; the upper portion of the forth wall appears to be a very large mirror.  The furnishings consist only of a small table and chair—both bolted securely to the floor—and a narrow bed that can be folded against the wall to which it attached to make space in the small confines.  

            A figure sleeps upon the bed, the obviously masculine frame almost too large for it.  He faces the wall with his back to the mirror, drawing the meager bit of privacy the position affords around him.  He decided long ago that if he ignores the people he knows are behind the mirror, he can retain what little bit of dignity he has left.  

            The day begins exactly as have the 1278 days before it—and much like the 110 days before that.  The soft snick of the unseen door opening wakes the man instantly, his body going from the relaxed tension of sleep to the rigid attention of complete alertness.  The man rolls out of the bed to his feet as the door is opened fully to allow the entrance of three people.  

The first, a woman in her mid-fifties, begins to set the tray she is carrying on the table when a voice behind her growls, "Stop where you are," accompanied by the sound of two weapons being brought to the ready position.  She lets go of the tray and darts out of the room, not at all caring what happens to the contents of the tray—for the first time since she began this job, the man inhabiting the little room has not remained standing at the side of the bed.  She's heard the stories, and as seriously as she takes her job, her sense of self-preservation wins over her sense of duty.  

            The man stops in his tracks, the threat he hears behind the words stopping him before he even realizes he's now staring down the barrels of two semi-automatic weapons.  He stands frozen in place, afraid to even move away from the threat in front of him.  Full blown panic arises and he crumples to the floor, curling up in a ball and repeating "don't hurt me" over and over again.  This day is no longer just like all the rest.

…So do I trash it or keep going?


	2. Chapter 2

Honor's Loss  2/?

Day 1831

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

2332 Zulu

            It is obvious this interview has been going on for some time—there are empty cups and take-out boxes scattered throughout the room, the air is heavy with smoke and two ashtrays are filled nearly to overflowing with stubbed out cigarette butts.

            On one side of the table is an older man—probably mid 60's—slouched dejectedly in a hard plastic chair.  On the other side of the table both agents are currently seated, although they frequently take turns pacing while the older man is answering their questions.  As he speaks it is quite obvious by his heavily accented English that the older man is Russian, but by the tale he's told so far, he hasn't seen his homeland in several years.  What's he's confessing to happened in the head of the desert, not the cold climes of Siberia's plains.

            "What happened next?" one of the agents—Brooks—asks.

            "Jasim, the leader of the compound, informed me he had changed his mind and was not going to set me free," Patrov, the Russian man, answers.  His speech may be thickly accented, but he has a clear grasp on the English language and he speaks it without trouble.  "He told me he had another subject for me.  I am grateful this man was the last."

            "Why was he the last?" 

            "He failed," Patrov answers simply.  "After the failure I was told I was no longer useful.  They were prepared to execute me when your military forces liberated the compound."

            "Why did you ask for asylum in the US?" Benner asks, one of the rare questions he's put voice to.

            "These men lured me from my home with promises—promises they promptly broke.  To the outside world things have changed in my homeland; in reality there are many places there that have not conformed to the new ways.  Where I lived was one of them," Patrov pauses a moment to collect his thoughts and have a sip of tepid coffee.  Benner and Brooks wait patiently—they sense the man has something important to tell them and are wise enough to know he'll do it on his own time.  "When the Soviet Union fell, men came to my house and took my wife and daughter.  They said as long as I cooperated with what they wanted me to do, my family would be safe.  When Jasim approached me, he promised to liberate my wife and daughter.  Two weeks after we left my homeland his men returned with their bodies.  Jasim simply laughed and told me that was what would happen to my brother and his family if I did not cooperate with him.  I still do not know if anything happened to them."

            "Why did you wait until now to step forward?" Benner again speaks out.  "You've been in this country for several years now."

            "I heard a news broadcast mention an attempt to assassinate your president nearly four years ago, and how that attempt has brought about changes in the security arrangements.  The story mentioned no one ever knew what happened—it was never discussed as more than a small blurb on the evening news, although it was mentioned there were rumors that the man who made the attempt was not killed in the attempt.  I had hopes that if I told my story someone could tell me what happened to him."

            "Why does he concern you?" Brooks challenges.

            "I believe he and my final subject are the same man.  It took far longer than Jasim was happy with to condition him—even when he was sent, I protested he wasn't ready.  Jasim insisted, so he was sent.  The man I remember had much honor and the strength and determination to back it up—I had to break him down in layers.  If he made the attempt and failed to execute his conditioning, I would be extremely relieved," Patrov explains.

            Benner and Brooks share a glance, communicating silently.  They agree his story needs looking into.  If they can locate his family, maybe it would be in the best interest of the government to bring them here.  **If his story checks our and ****if it is felt they can trust him, then they **may** share some of the details with him, but only with authorization.  "I'm afraid there isn't anything we can tell you," Brooks says finally.**

            Patrov opens his mouth to object, and closes it quickly when his rational side informs him their decision—from their perspective at least—is wise.  "I understand," he accepts, not pressing the issue.  He gathers his few papers and shrugs his coat on when it becomes apparent the interview is at an end.

            Benner turns back to Patrov as the three reach the door.  "You don't remember the name of your last subject do you?" he asks.

            "I have my freedom because of him, of course I remember.  His name was an odd one—Harmon Rabb," Patrov answers a little wounded.  He sees the man's face in his dreams every night; he'll not soon forget.

            "We'll check into it and see if we can come up with anything," Benner offers, hoping to keep the older man from noticing Brooks' excitement—he needs to have a serious talk with his partner.  As soon as he reaches his office after escorting Patrov out of the building—leaving him with the possibility of another interview—Benner stops briefly at his secretary's desk.  "Get me Webb," he requests before shutting himself in his small office.


	3. Chapter 3

Honor's Loss  3/?

Day 1832

Secure facility, just outside Washington, DC

0200 Zulu

            It has been a long day for those gathered in the meeting room.  They are waiting for the arrival of their director so they can deliver their reports and call it a night.  They spent a large part of their morning attempting to calm the man who went from caged defiance to downright paranoia right before their eyes.  Any and all attempts to calm the man resulted only in frustration for the staff.  Authorization was finally obtained for more intensive measures and the doctor on duty quickly prepared a light sedative to help the man relax—that doctor won't be on duty for a while now, his duty station for the foreseeable future is the infirmary, nursing a broken wrist and serious concussion.  

            ~~No one expected that the touch of the needle would cause such a reaction.  From the ball he'd been curled in for the last six hours, the man exploded outward as soon as the needle pricked his skin.  Although caught off guard, the doctor slammed the needle home and completed the injection in the moment before his arm was caught in a crushing grip and he was flung against the wall.  Two members of the staff hurriedly pulled the doctor out of the room before the man could do any more damage, while the rest tried to corral the now enraged man.  More guards appeared on the scene, followed a few minutes later by another doctor with a syringe, this one containing a very large dose of a very powerful sedative.  At the behest of the new doctor and with much trepidation, a half dozen of the guards slowly approached the man.  The ensuing struggle was short but decisive, the man got in a few good blows but he was no match for six men even larger than himself.  The doctor approached cautiously, and the six guards pinning the man to the floor tightened their grip.  Once again when the needle pricked his skin, the man tried to fight—this time though, they were ready.  

            It took nearly an hour for the sedative to take any effect.  The guards were approaching exhaustion by the time they felt the man they were holding begin to relax.  He seemed to struggle more out of a sense of familiarity than conviction when, after a prolonged conference with his colleagues, the doctor approached with another syringe.  Less than five minutes later all struggles ceased abruptly and the guards cautiously got to their feet.  The doctor wisely checked his approach when the man stirred and struggled back to his feet.  He stood, swaying slightly, and asked with confusion clear on his face, "where am I?" before dropping tonelessly to the floor.

            He was taken to the infirmary where he underwent a battery of tests—blood was drawn, x-rays taken, even an MRI was performed.  Another half dozen guards remained as close as they could in case they were needed, but the man remained under the influence of the sedative.  There was some discussion on safety for the staff when the man was returned to his room; it was finally decided that they would provide a larger security contingent whenever anyone needed to enter the room—although more serious measures were tossed around, they are placed on the back burner, for now.  Hours later, the man is finally returned to his room, blissfully unaware of the debate regarding future security concerns.~~

            The discussions have turned from security concerns to plans for days off by the time their superior finally arrives.  He looks tired and drawn, his suit is rumpled and his shoulders are slumped in fatigue; his eyes, however, show an alertness the rest of him does not.  He slips through the door of the meeting room, taking in the mood around him in that first moment.  Behind him, three people enter who stop all conversation—the man in the rumpled suit they were expecting, the three in uniform they were not. 

            "All right Webb, would you mind telling us why you dragged us here?" the oldest uniformed officer—an admiral—demands.  

            "All will be explained shortly, AJ," Webb of the rumpled suit replies.  "Just go and take a quick look at what's on the other side of the curtain over there and then the reason for me bringing you all here will be explained."

            AJ and the other two officers, a Marine Colonel and a Navy Captain, slip through the indicated curtain warily, their gazes immediately drawn to the figure curled on the narrow bed.  Although not by conscious choice this time, the figure's back is to the window—there isn't anything visible to give any clues to the identity of the person sleeping.

            Webb joins them after a moment only to ask the confused officers to step into the main room again.  In the short time they were in the little alcove, a television has been brought in and set up.  "This will answer your questions," Webb assures the trio, indicating the tape one of the staff is feeding into the VCR.  'And it will probably raise quiet a few more,' he adds to himself ruefully.

            Webb watches the reactions of the officers at the beginning of the recording.  Shock, disbelief, confusion, amazement, sadness, grief, and finally anger transform the features of each.  It is when the anger wins out at the end that he begins to worry about their reactions.  All of this happens in the first few seconds, leaving him plenty of time to turn his attention to the screen.  At the conclusion of the tape, the anger has been rejoined by confusion and grief.

            "Why didn't you tell us?" Colonel Sarah MacKenzie asks.  

            "What was I supposed to tell you?  That Harm is alive but he attempted to kill the President?" Webb asks just shy of sarcastic.  

            "How long has he been here?" Captain Sturgis Turner asks.

            "Here?  A couple months shy of four years."  Webb is too busy trying not to look the three in the eye that he doesn't notice the anger radiating off of them.  The others in the room, however, can see trouble brewing, they back away slowly as a group; those who are currently on duty try to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible while those who are not on duty escape to the cafeteria—once Webb extricates himself from his current 'situation' he's going to want to talk to them and they don't want to make him angry by having to look for them all over the compound.

            "You're telling me Harm has been locked in that little room for nearly four years?" AJ thunders.

            Webb belatedly realizes his mistake, but it's too late; they've cut off all avenues of escape.  He nods meekly.

            "And you're trying to tell me Commander Harmon Rabb, one of the most honorable men you know, tried to assassinate the President?"  If anything, AJ's voice has risen a couple of notches.  Mac and Sturgis hold their ground, content for the moment to let the former SeAL take the lead.

            "I just received some information that makes me believe the explosion we all thought he died in wasn't an accident, but a carefully executed plan.  I brought the three of you here for two reasons:  one, to help determine the veracity of the information; and two, to see if you can help us get through to him."

            "So why didn't you ask for our help earlier?" Sturgis asks.

            "Quite frankly, I'm not sure how he's going to react now.  He might just revert back to his previous state, which means I don't think anything will get through to him.  Or—and I only say this because this was the first change in routine in the last three and a half years—we might finally be able to communicate with him and ask him what happened.  Up until this time, he's not spoken a word of English to anyone—heck, he hasn't even acted like he's understood it.  So, are you in?"

            The two junior officers look to their former CO; they'll follow his lead.  "What are the restrictions?" AJ asks.

            "Same as everyone else here; you can't mention what's going on here to **anyone.  The only personnel at this facility who are aware of exactly what happens in this building are those you've seen and a couple of others.  You will be introduced to each and every one of them so you will know who you can discuss this with.  You won't be restricted to the facility or anything; people know it's here, they just don't know what happens behind the fences.  You can keep in touch with your offices, families, anyone, as long as this isn't mentioned."**

            AJ almost smiles at the lengthy 'list'.  "In other words, all of this is classified, but there are no physical restrictions," he sums up.  Webb turns pink with embarrassment, and manages a nod.  "I think they can do without my presence at the office for a few days at least," AJ says finally.  "Colonel, Captain?" 

            "I don't have any pressing cases lined up," Mac admits.  "I can probably clear my docket in a day or two."  Soon after Harm was buried, Mac accepted a permanent posting to the bench; she's still at Headquarters, but tries her best to stay away from the bullpen and painful memories.

            "I can probably have Captain Yorke take my first class, but I'd really like to keep the second for now.  I can give you Tuesdays, Thursdays and the weekends."  Two years ago, shortly after his wedding, Sturgis was asked to teach a class at the Academy.  After some discussion with the dean, another class was added to his schedule earlier this year—it's very popular with the students.

            "Thank you," Webb tells them sincerely.  "Tomorrow…no, today's Friday.  Do you want to come back on Saturday to begin?" he asks.

            "I'll call the office from here and let them know I'll be out all day," AJ says. 

            "I don't have any cases to hear today; I'd like to stick around," Mac adds.

            "I'm afraid I do have to get back to Annapolis," Sturgis admits.  "I'll come back on Saturday."  He'd really like to stay, there's just no one else to teach this particular class.

            "Williams will drive you home," Webb offers.  The three exchange goodbyes and watch as Sturgis takes his leave, following the driver who brought them here.  As soon as he's gone, Webb turns back to AJ and Mac.  "Do you want to get some shut-eye or come with me to get the story from my people?" he asks.  

            "Do you really need to ask?  Lead on Webb."


	4. Chapter 4

AN: I've received several requests to continue this story, thank you for your interest. My other story, Secrets and Sacrifices has been taking up most of my writing time, but I've never forgotten about this one.

Honor's Loss 4/?

Day 1832

Secure facility, just outside Washington, DC

1005 Zulu

With breakfast before them and interviews behind them, AJ, Mac and Webb are taking a few minutes to regroup before returning to the observation room.

"All right, Webb; you told us you'd tell us what happened," AJ requests.

"What is it you want to know?" Webb asks wearily.

"Given a choice of how he ended up in here and how you let us believe he was dead five years ago, I think we'll pick the former for the moment. You can tell us the rest later."

"Great," Webb says sarcastically.

* * *

Day 379

January 13, 2005

White House

The day is crisp and cool, the sky a breathtakingly clear blue, providing no impediments to the brightly shining sun. In honor of the mild winter day, the informal gathering of the top military personnel is taking place in the garden of the presidential residence.

A tall man in the uniform of a Naval Commander strides purposefully through the gardens toward the gathering. No one slows his approach, but word is sent ahead to warn the attendees of his arrival. The atmosphere of the meeting is relaxed; even the news of an unexpected visitor does little to change that; although had the agents at the front gate of the property not been involved in dealing with an unruly crowd that appeared almost from thin air, someone would have though to question the presence of the commander; he didn't exactly enter through the front gates.

Some distance away, another man is watching the tall commander with satisfaction. As each of the details fall into place and the moment he's been waiting for draws nearer, Jasim begins planning his next undertaking. This mission has taken much longer than he'd originally planned—and he's let a few other opportunities slip by—but he's certain the results will be worth it. He turns his attention back to his current mission as it nears its end.

As predicted, the CNO intercepts the newcomer. Only slightly slower than anticipated, the commander salutes the senior officer, pausing for just a moment before returning to his original course. Perturbed, the CNO orders the younger man to stop; orders that shouldn't make a difference to this man, but for a reason unknown to the unseen watcher, they do. At that moment, the blank mask vanishes and confusion blossoms on the Commander's face. He looks at his hand and then the man he's come to see, emotions flickering across his face like Christmas lights on Speed. Everyone around him freezes, surprised. No one sees him move, but somehow he's no longer standing by the CNO; he's now standing in front of the President. Warring emotions again play across his face, something flickers in his cold, dead eyes and, at the moment movement returns to the others, he's carrying out his task. Like a video being played in slow motion, two gunshots ring out, the President falls backwards, and less than a heartbeat later another half dozen or more shots break the silence, propelling the commander to the ground.

From afar, Jasim is satisfied with what he sees; both the target and his agent lay in the melting snow. He gathers up his equipment and hurries back to his hotel room. With this victory he has much planning to do for his next project.

Back in the garden, the President rises shakily to his feet and regards his would-be assassin. "He's still alive," one of the men crouched around the crumpled form announces. The rest of the group tightens their hold on their weapons, only to relax a bit when the gun is finally freed from the unresisting hand. It is a very short time later that the man is loaded into a newly-arrived helicopter and flown away, leaving behind a man in an impeccable gray suit.

"Mr. President? My name is Clayton Webb. I need to ask you a few questions."

* * *

"I can't believe he'd do something like that," Mac protests.

"Do you want me to finish telling this or not?" Webb asks, grumpy at being interrupted.

"Sorry, please continue."

* * *

"I have some questions I want answered before I answer yours," the rookie President, Jonathon Worth, states.

Webb looks uncomfortable; this is one person he can't give his standard 'classified' answer to. "Yes, sir," he says hesitantly.

"Who do you work for?"

An easy one. "The CIA."

"How did you get here so quickly?"

Easy, but tricky—he must tread carefully here. "We received a message about 30 minutes ago that there was to be an attempt on your life. It was more of a taunt that we couldn't do anything to stop it than a warning it might happen."

"Why didn't you just inform the Secret Service?"

Good question. "To my knowledge, some of my coworkers were dispatched to do so. I'm surprised no one got the message here."

"Do you know who the would-be assassin is?

Simple. "That information wasn't given to us, and I didn't have a chance to take a look at him."

"Where are they taking him?"

Complete blank. "I don't know for sure, but I would assume a facility where they can identify him."

"They won't treat him?" Worth asks, astonished.

"What?" He certainly didn't expect that. "He's alive? After what happened, wait….what did happen?" Webb asks; he needs a few answers of his own.

"In a nutshell, he approached the group, saluted the CNO, hesitated a moment before he brushed past him. I didn't pay much attention to him until then—I thought he was here to talk to Gerald. Gerald ordered him to stop; it was only then that I realized he was armed. He was suddenly next to me, shoving me to the ground and turning the gun on himself. The agents must have thought he shot me; they fired at him before I could get up." He's reliving the moment, seeing the entire thing happen again in his mind's eye. "I saw the expression on his face as he fell—in the midst of his confusion he looked relieved."

An impossible thought tickles the back of Webb's mind. "Can you describe him?" he asks urgently.

"Tall, dark hair; women would probably call him handsome. According to the uniform, he's a Naval Commander and a pilot," Worth remembers, dredging up more details from his memory. His eyes are closed to 'see' more clearly. "I believe there is a Silver Star among his ribbons…and if I'm not mistaken, he's not wearing the star of a line officer." As he tries to concentrate further, the image retreats, along with the adrenaline sustaining him. He slumps a little, only to be caught and supported by one of the agents.

"Mr. President, we need to get you inside and have you looked at," the agent breaks in.

Webb begins to move away without protest; Worth's voice calls him back, "You know who it is, don't you?" he asks, shaking off the hands trying to help him. "I want to see you in my office before you leave here," he orders, finally allowing his guardians to have what they want—him inside.

Webb ignores the question and acknowledges the order with a wave of his hand. If he's going to reveal what he suspects—especially considering it is completely impossible—he wants more proof. Selecting his next 'interview' he steps into a conversation and introduces himself.

* * *

"I knew he wouldn't do something like that," Mac declares confidently.

"Do you want to hear the rest of this or not?" Webb grumps again.

"Sorry." This time, it's said without contrition.

* * *

Nearly eight hours later he's finally finished his interviews, and he's not sure if the news is good or bad. A call to his office nets him the news the 'mystery man'—as he's being called—was rushed into surgery upon arrival at the hospital. The agents who accompanied him there promised a call as soon as they received word. He's almost positive his impossibility has somehow become possible; the only thing he wants to do now is personally and visually confirm his suspicions—the man he suspects it is has been dead for over a year.

One of the secret service agents ghosts up to his side, startling him out of his thoughts. "There's a rumor going around that the shooter from this morning is still alive. Do you know anything?" he asks Webb anxiously.

"He's in surgery last I heard," Webb responds, meeting the haunted eyes of the young agent—he wonders if the kid's heard the shooter didn't actually shoot at the president as well.

There is a hint of relief in his eyes at the revelation he hasn't taken a life—yet. "The President said to send you in when you arrived," he mentions belatedly.

"Thank you, Agent…" Webb's not sure if he's been introduced to the kid or not, but at the moment he's drawing a complete blank for the name.

"Nichols," the young agent supplies.

"Thank you, Agent Nichols," Webb repeats. There's nothing like a little courtesy to remain off the black list of certain agencies. He gives a perfunctory knock on the door and enters.

"Agent Webb," Worth greets Webb when the door is once again closed. "I was just about to send someone to look for you."

"Mr. President. I just finished up," Webb returns warily.

"Well, what did you find out?"

"I don't have anything concrete, just speculation at this point," Webb hedges.

"And?" The word is drawn out.

"Before you took office, there were a number of assassinations in countries around the world. Men and women without any history of violence would disappear for a month or two, suddenly reappear without any explanations and carry out the assassination. In every one of these cases the assassin was killed; we've never been able from them why they did it; the consensus is a third party is involved, either converting the assassins to their way of thinking or forcing them by more drastic measures. It's been nearly a year since the last assassination."

"And you think this mysterious third party is behind this? The man didn't even point his weapon at me, he used it on himself!"

"As I said, it's all speculation at this point."

"Have you gotten an ID on him yet?" Worth asks.

"I haven't heard anything more than he was taken into surgery when the helicopter landed at the hospital at Georgetown University. Once he's out of surgery we'll start the ball rolling on getting him ID'd."

Something in his expression must have given him away. "You know who he is," Worth accuses.

"I'd rather not speculate at this time, Mr. President. To do so may simply tarnish the memory of a good and honorable man."

"If he's been used as you say, there's no reason that this should affect his…memory?" The last part comes out as a question. "What do you mean memory?"

Webb sighs, he's tired and let things slip that had he been rested would never have been mentioned; there's no way he's going to be able to get out of telling Worth his suspicions, the man is too perceptive and persistent.

"A year ago, a Naval Commander who fits the descriptions I've gotten was killed in a warehouse explosion. There were only two bodies recovered—it was assumed at the time that one was the officer and one was the man he was there to meet. I can't say any more about that except he was on a sanctioned assignment at the time."

"I take it there was no way to positively identify the bodies?"

"His dog tags melted in the fire; that's how the body—or what was left of it—was identified."

I thought you said the people who went missing would turn up a month or two later. You just said this man was missing for a year. It doesn't add up. Why would the time table have changed?"

"That's what I would like to know. Again, it's only speculation, but the man I knew lived and breathed honor; it would have been difficult at best to entice him to shoot his Commander-in-Chief."

Worth files the knowledge of a personal relationship away for perusal at a later time. "So what happens now?"

"I'm going to the hospital to see this guy for myself; even if it is who I suspect, we'll need to run his prints and verify. After that, what happens will depend on whether he lives or not."

"At this time no one knows of the attempt. While I can't say I enjoy being a target, the fact that he never fired his weapon at me makes me reluctant to treat him as an assassin, especially if what you believe checks out. What would you recommend if he is who you think he is?"

Webb ponders the question seriously for a few minutes, weighing both sides of the equation. He finally comes up with what might be a workable solution. "Until we know what happened, he needs to be kept in a secure area. I hesitate to leave him in an open hospital, but at the same time I don't believe it is necessary—or particularly wise—to put him in a prison facility. I do know of a secure facility outside the city where we could create an acceptable compromise. It would give us an opportunity to get the information we want from him, if things are as they seem."

"How quickly can you get this arranged?"

"Two days at the most, should he survive the surgery."

"Keep me informed. Anyone has a problem with the arrangements, they can speak to me," Worth offers.

"I almost hope these plans are unneeded, but thank you for the support"

"Like I said, keep me informed," Worth reiterates, handing Webb a card. "Call me at this number anytime—you won't have to deal with my overprotective staff if you do."

Webb thanks him again and heads for the door. Time to see if the uneasy feeling he's had since the beginning of this whole fiasco is some sort of psychic knowledge or if it's just that his lunch didn't agree with him.


	5. Chapter 5

I've been dusting off my old fics, and found that this section has been pretty much written for a long time. It's nice to have the muse interested again so I can get some of these finished and off my conscience.

Honor's Loss 5/?

Day 1832

Secure facility, just outside Washington, DC

1100 Zulu

"I guess you were right," Mac comments, glancing in to the room where the morning routine is about to begin.

"It wasn't until the following day I was actually allowed in to see him. Even then it was pretty hard to tell; they had him hooked up to every conceivable machine. He was extremely thin and pale; you could tell then, and still can to some extent now, some of the things they did to him during the year he was gone. Of all the wounds he received that day, it was the self-inflicted ones that were the most life-threatening, but against all odds he pulled through. We had all the necessary arrangements—this warehouse as you see it, the necessary personnel, properly vetted, and all the equipment we could possibly need—in place within 48 hours We had to wait an additional 36 before it was safe to move him, but he's been here ever since." He finishes just as the door opens, allowing a much larger contingent of guards than usual to enter the room.

Inside the room, no one knows what to expect. Already the day is starting differently—Harm hasn't made a move to get out of bed, although those watching through the window can see him tense with the first sound of movement. "Sit up, put your hands on your head and lace your fingers together," Masters, the head guard instructs—he and his colleagues are taking no chances this morning; their weapons are held at the ready.

Slowly, carefully, Harm complies with the order, confusion written all over his face. Satisfied, Masters allows the next part of the routine to be completed; breakfast and a clean change of clothes are quickly left on the small table. No one wants to even chance a repeat of the day before, but Harm remains where he is, meekly compliant.

The staff and most of the guards exit, leaving Masters and his partner, Douglas, with Harm. While Douglas watches with his weapon at the ready, Masters steps a little closer and lowers his own weapon. "Someone will be in to talk to you after you eat and shower," he advises gently, responding to the myriad of questions plainly showing in Harm's eyes. Without breaking from his position, Harm nods once in acknowledgement and waits until the door is closed behind the two men before cautiously moving toward the table. He sits slowly; studying the contents of the tray in front of him and cautiously begins to eat. He is apparently surprised at the taste of his meal, caution turns to enjoyment and soon he has cleared most of the tray.

Hunger satisfied, Harm turns his attention to the bundle left with the meal. There is a change of clothes, a presumably charged electric razor and other toiletries. Casting a doubtful look at the large mirror dominating the far wall of his room, Harm gathers as much privacy as he can using the short wall and is shaved, showered and dressed in short order.

Tasks done, Harm then prowls around the small room, looking at anything and everything. He pauses beside the small bunk and straightens it with military precision. The discarded clothes are folded into a small bundle and placed on the table next to the breakfast tray. After a moment of hesitation, the toiletries are placed on the tray, and another circuit of the room is made.

He comes to a restless stop next to the mirror; those observing have a rare chance to study him up close—pencils scribble furiously describing the openness now present in his features, noting it is well tempered with both wariness and confusion. He stands there until the door once again opens to reveal Masters, Douglas and the woman who brought the tray earlier. She quickly grabs the things left on the table and darts out of the room, not quite trusting the change that has apparently come over Harm. On the heels of her departure, another figure enters, a younger man wearing a lab coat in place of a suit jacket.

Douglas places a plastic chair opposite the seat at the table and nods an answer to a request from the young doctor. By the time the doctor has found his place in the folder he carries and laid it on the table, Douglas has returned with two Styrofoam cups of coffee. He sets them on the table and again takes up a position in the doorway.

In the meantime, Masters approaches Harm slowly, careful not to startle him. He's opted away from the rifle he carried earlier, instead choosing a sidearm he keeps holstered. "Sir, there is someone here to see you."

On the other side of the mirror, the watchers are delighted to see curiosity and interest on Harm's face before he turns to follow Masters to the table. He sits, but does not speak, waiting for the other man to make the first move.

The conversation that follows is frustratingly encouraging. Although Harm will not initiate conversation, he does answer questions asked of him, but with simple one word answers…usually "no".

An hour later, having exhausted his list of questions, the doctor leaves. Harm remains sitting passively at the table under the watchful eye of Masters and Douglas, clearly bothered by the man's frustration, not knowing what he can do to make it go away. When Douglas and Masters follow the doctor out of the room and the door shuts behind them, he moves from the uncomfortable seat at the table to the slightly more comfortable bed.

"Well?" Webb asks when the doctor joins them at the window.

"He obviously understands the language, but he wouldn't give me an answer to any of my questions. All he kept saying was 'no'."

Masters has followed the doctor and feels compelled to speak up. "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't believe he was avoiding your questions, I believe he didn't know the answers to them."

"What do you know about it?" the doctor demands. "Are you trying to tell me you can do my job better than I can?"

"Calm down, Chambers," Webb instructs, turning to the guard. "What did you see, Masters?"

"I've been observing him since he woke up. He doesn't seem to understand what is going on. Doctor Chambers, you were looking at your notes rather than at the man you were speaking to. Every time you asked him a question, he thought about it before he answered you. Had you been watching his reaction, you would have seen the confusion and frustration there."

"Don't you go telling me how to do my job; you're just a glorified babysitter."

Masters stands his ground. "This 'glorified babysitter' knows how to read people, sir. You have to pay attention to what they're telling you with things other than your ears if you want to know what they truly are saying."

"Gentlemen, please," Webb interrupts before the argument can turn physical. "We're all here for the same reason. Masters, since you've been observing, what kind of threat do you think he poses?"

"Mr. Webb, I was present for the problems yesterday. I've been stationed here from the beginning, and to be honest with you, I've been wary of him since then. But there's something very different today. I see nothing that, if I were to walk into this compound for the first time today, would make me think he was anything but a very confused individual."

"Not violent at all?"

"No, sir." Masters glances at Chambers who has been silently glaring at him during this exchange. "I would suggest trying a friendly face or two; someone he knew before all this happened. See if that jars any memories."

Webb exchanges a thoughtful glance with AJ and Mac. "What do you think, Chambers?" he asks.

Chambers has finally calmed down enough to respond without spitting fire. "I don't know if it will hurt or help," he says finally, "but if you really want to try, I'm not exactly in any position to stop you. However if this backfires, I won't be held responsible."

"That won't be an issue. Get your report to me before 5; we can discuss it tomorrow." Webb turns his back, effectively dismissing the doctor.

Chambers leaves reluctantly. He wanted to watch the careful façade the man in the room was putting on crumble first hand so he could say 'I told you so', but it looks like he'll have to wait until later to rub that glorified babysitter's nose in it.

XXX

Harm looks up when the door opens again. He holds his ground, waiting for instructions that never come; instead three people enter the room—a man in an expensive but rumpled suit followed by a man and a woman in uniform. There is no flicker of recognition for the newcomers, but an acknowledgement of the uniforms—or the authority inherent in them—brings all sorts of questions to his eyes; he actually almost comes to attention before slumping onto the bed with a hand to his head.

"Do you know who we are?" Webb asks his old friend.

Harm studies each of the newcomers for a long moment before he slowly shakes his head, "No."

His response both delights and frustrates Webb; he's definitely responding, as Masters reported, but even with the information his colleagues received from Patrov, the fact that he doesn't recognize any of them is to be expected, but disheartening nonetheless.

"My name is Clayton Webb; this is Admiral AJ Chegwidden and Colonel Sarah MacKenzie."

Harm doesn't know what to say; having the names to go with the faces doesn't help at all, but given the way they're all looking at him, they must know… "Can you tell me who I am?" he whispers, sounding more like a scared child than a grown man. "And please, tell me what I've done." He doesn't have any real reason for his second request, except for a feeling he can't pin down that he knows the statement's true. Perhaps it is the presence of the armed guards, the room with the door that will only open from the outside, or maybe just something in the air, but despite not remembering a single thing other than what has transpired this morning, he somehow knows his current predicament is the result of something serious he's done.

"Oh Harm," Mac whispers, distressed to see the man standing in front of her. Now that they're in the room with him, it's easier to see that he little resembles the proud and sometimes cocky officer she once knew—his frame is thinner than when they first met and although he's remained as active as he can by prowling the small quarters and doing what exercises he can without equipment, he's lost a lot of muscle tone. It's his eyes that bother her the most; when the questions and the confusion fades, they are lifeless and dull, not at all like the like the man who used to say so much with just a look.

AJ chooses to speak up first, looking for any sign of the sometimes overconfident officer in the frightened man standing in front of him. "Your name is Harmon Rabb; you were a Navy Commander, under my command, before you disappeared."

"Disappeared? I don't understand…"

Webb sighs. He knew this would be difficult, he just didn't know how bad it would be. "Before we can answer any of your questions we need to get your version of events from you. We don't want anything you remember to be tainted by what we might tell you."

"I don't think that will be a problem, Mr. Webb; I don't think what I remember is going to help you much anyway."

"Why not?" Webb asks, more than a little annoyed at the statement.

"Because the first thing I remember is your guards waking me up a while ago; I can't even recall dreaming anything last night," Harm confesses.

Webb stares at him with narrowed eyes for a few minutes, as if trying to delve into Harm's mind and extract the information he's looking for by the force of his gaze. To his credit, although he has no basis for the reason behind that unforgiving stare, Harm doesn't flinch. He meets Webb's stare and returns it openly—more openly than he's ever looked at anyone before. It's that openness that convinces the three of them that the apparent amnesia is real and not an attempt at subterfuge. "Would you be willing to submit to a few tests? Perhaps we'll be able to figure out how to access your memories."

"Yeah, sure. Whatever you want," Harm acquiesces with a shrug. "I'll do anything if it will help me remember something."

***

The few suggested tests turn into several. Those several morph into many more over the next week or so. Every test they can think of is run at least once, many twice, and several more are made up on the spot. At the end of the first week Harm isn't any closer to having his memory return, and they're not any closer to determining just what it is that was done to make him forget. The biggest surprise and a minor setback for the testing process comes on the second day—when presented with a written list of instructions for one of the tests, Harm simply stares at the paper for several minutes before announcing he can't read it.

"I know what reading is, in theory; I just can't determine how to put it into practice."

Visions of months of retraining dance through the minds of those observing that particular session; they are dispelled a few hours later after the basics for both reading and writing have been covered and in a very short time he's as proficient with both as he was before. Without fail, when other areas are found that require a learned proficiency, Harm attempts each and every one on his own before admitting defeat and asking for help. For each of these, he is again given enough basic instruction to get him through the test, and every time his comprehension is excellent. "Some part of his brain must remember how to do all of this, but for some reason he is unable to access it until he is basically retrained," one of the testers comments near the end of their testing. As tests are completed and there is no sign his memory is going to return despite the ease of retraining previously learned skills, an idea begins to form in the minds of several of the scientists.


End file.
